


Unexpected

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Endings [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dramatic Irony, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, POV Alternating, Panic Attack, Protectiveness, The Calling, Warden at Skyhold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it wasn't obvious by now, this fic is no longer being updated, and likely will never be updated. Sorry, folks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected

“Here we are at last.” Theron allowed himself to relax as they finally reached the long stone bridge that would deliver them into the imposing grey fortress. In the winter light that glinted off the snowy mountains all around, the fortress reared up as if it was carved from the mountain it rested on, towers reaching up like fingers to indeed hold the sky.

Zevran muttered something from somewhere within the folds of his cloak, narrowing his eyes at a brief, sharp gust that threw snow up at their faces. He’d complained bitterly about the snow and the cold as soon as they’d entered the foothills, and had remained huddled in a thick cloak as they’d climbed the well-worn path - or, at the ranger’s insistence, cut through the snow and straggling trees that managed to survive above the treeline, following animal trails as shortcuts or around obstacles.

The ranger nodded in agreement, deciding that Zevran had said something positive, and tried to quell his instinctive unease at the sight of the guards that had been sent out to escort them in. How exactly a bridge could be more dangerous than the mountains they’d spent the week travelling through, Theron didn’t know. Then again, he’d refused the offer of an envoy to be sent to travel with him, knowing that two elves would be able to cover ground far quicker than a group of men in armour who would inevitably only draw more attention.

A little surprisingly, the Inquisitor herself was waiting near the gates to greet them, along with someone who must have been one of her advisors. She made an imposing figure, her height only added to by her tapering, slightly curved horns.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Hero of Ferelden.” She began as Theron pulled the hood of his cloak down.

“The same to you, Herald.” The ranger answered, looking up at the high-cheekboned Qunari woman - he’d almost forgotten just how tall the Qunari were. There was a flash of something in her vivid green eyes when she heard the title, and a second later Theron realised it was irritation. She didn’t like being called Herald? He would have chuckled at that, but then the Inquistor’s advisor, a man named Cullen, was suggesting they continue the discussion elsewhere.

Zevran looked around curiously as they were led through the fortress, no doubt memorising every possible escape route or good vantage points.

“Are they sure this is not a castle?” He murmured to Theron as they walked behind the other two.

“Whatever it is, it’s impressive. Watchtowers, stables, even their own tavern.” Theron paused. “We’ll have to explore further in our own time.” He smirked quickly, before their attention was caught as they entered what could only have been Skyhold’s main hall. It was a long room with a towering ceiling, and both elves raised their eyebrows when they saw what seemed to be a throne made from dragon teeth and bone, perhaps an entire head.

“I never got a throne.” Theron whispered as they were led past, and he actually sounded scandalised.

 

They were led through one of the doors to the left, into what seemed to be an office, for lack of a better word. A fire burned steadily in a hearth, warming the stone room. There was a desk set to one side near another door, placed at an angle so the woman seated behind it could see anyone who walked through either door. She had been writing letters, but stopped when the four of them entered.

She smiled very warmly at the Inquisitor, in a way that made Theron and Zevran exchange a curious glance, and got to her feet.

“Welcome to Skyhold, sers.” She said, approaching the two travellers. Zevran’s eyes brightened when he heard her accent, the first one he’d heard since leaving Antiva a month ago. “I apologise for the lack of ceremony, but from your letters it seemed like you would not be arriving for another week.” She apologised, looking from one to the other. Theron stopped himself from smiling; that had been the plan. He would have hated being fussed over, so whenever Zevran had written they’d made it seem like they were further away than they truly were.

“It’s perfectly fine.” The blond answered, gaze flicking over to the Inquisitor and Cullen.

“Josephine, we’ll be in the War Room.” The Qunari said, and she led the way out of the room through the other door. The woman, Josephine, nodded, and then directed the two elves to sit in the chairs by the fire.

“I’m sure after so long on the road you’ll want to be given time to recuperate.” She continued, earning her a dry smirk.

“We’re not going to get down to business immediately?” Theron asked, and Josephine hesitated.

“We... Could, I just assumed-”

“We’ve spent a long time already on the roads, but I for one would like to have some time to relax before we turn to the matter of saving the world.” Zevran shot the Dalish elf a pointed glare. “Again.”

Josephine smiled in understanding, and then went off to find an unoccupied guard who could show the two new arrivals to their room. If there was any speculation about why the two shared a room, it was either never voiced or not mentioned around either of them.

“Theron! Zevran!” A voice called when they were halfway across Skyhold’s main hall, and the two elves turned to see Leliana striding towards them. Zevran let out a low whistle of approval at the clinging chainmail, until Theron nudged him in the ribs.

“Leliana, _andaran atish’an_!” The Dalish elf called, grinning widely so his teeth flashed against the dark contrast of his skin.

“You definitely suit this far more than those Chantry robes. The hood is a nice touch, highly ominous.” Zevran added, watching in amusement as Theron accepted a brief hug of greeting.

“I thought you two were being too slow. I should have known you’d do this.” The Spymaster shook her head, eyes bright even if she didn’t smile.

“Ah, you know how Theron is.” Zevran sighed, leaning casually against the ranger. “Never one for a fuss.”

“That is true.” Leliana nodded.

“Please, carry on discussing me as if I’m not here.” Theron sighed, rolling his eyes.

Zevran shot him a grin.

Leliana seemed to notice the guard hovering politely in the background at last, and waved her away.

“I can show them to their quarters.” She added. The trip up to one of Skyhold’s many guest rooms was full of a decade’s worth of chatter, and Leliana left them at the door to unpack without being interrupted or distracted.

Naturally, even between them Theron and Zevran had very little possessions, so the matter of unpacking and settling into their appointed room barely took ten minutes.

“This is a very nice view.” Theron mused as he peered out a window, looking down at what he could see of Skyhold, and then the mountains beyond that seemed to stretch for miles.

“Still cold.” Zevran answered, glaring at the fire and wishing it would heat the room up faster.

“I could leave you here to huddle in the blankets?” Theron suggested, turning from the window.

“I’d prefer it if you were with me. And neither of us had clothes on.”

The ranger sighed in defeat, rubbing at one shoulder underneath his armour.

“Later.” He replied, watching the Antivan’s wicked grin and knowing he’d be held to it. Perhaps against a wall.

“Shall we go explore before we return to that charming Antivan woman?”

Theron barely had to think about it; he nodded as he reached for his bow.

“So long as we don’t end up staying in the tavern for the rest of the day.”

“What a wonderful way to spend the end of the world that would be.” Zevran sighed wistfully as they left the room behind.

 

The garden they stumbled across entirely by chance was nice enough, even if it was oddly busy and full of people in Chantry robes. They were about to move on, go back into Skyhold and examine some of the rooms off the main hall, when something made Theron stop in his tracks. Zevran frowned in confusion, unable to see what had drawn the other elf’s attention, but he dutifully followed across the grass.

Theron stopped a short distance away from a child standing near what seemed to be a stone gazebo, eyes wide. Zevran looked at the child as well, and then tried not to stare. The young boy had light brown skin, and fine black hair brushed neatly behind his ears. Ears which had a very faint point to them.

“ _Braska_.” The Antivan muttered to himself. The boy looked over, and caught the two elves staring at him. His features were delicate, and sharp for a child.

“Hello.” Theron ventured, for once struggling to look away. His voice was soft, but carefully flat.

“Who are you?” The boy asked, turning to give them his full attention and fixing two deep brown eyes on the two elves. Theron remained silent.

“My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends.” The blond introduced himself, throwing in a mock bow and a joking smile. “This is Theron.” He added, wondering if the child had ever been told who his father was. He glanced across at the Dalish elf, who was now looking out across the garden as if he was bored, but Zevran could see the tension in his shoulders, the deep breaths he was taking. “Who are you?” He asked.

The boy narrowed his eyes at the two of them, obviously wary.

“Kieran.” He eventually said, drawing himself up as if that would make him seem taller. Zevran glanced him over, counting back the years and figuring he was around nine or ten years old by now.

“A fine name.” Theron said, still rather quiet, as he looked back at the child. His child.

He’d been able to cope the past decade by only thinking of the child as a vague concept, something he would never see realised. How could _he_ ever have a son, anyway? And yet, here a son was, completely ignorant of their shared blood, of his heritage. Zevran watched him closely, and then forced a smile.

“Anyway, we had best be getting on. There is much of Skyhold to see, yes?” He said, gently resting a hand on the ranger’s elbow. “It was nice meeting you, Kieran.” He added, quickly steering Theron away to go sit on an unoccupied bench in a secluded corner of the open corridor that ran around the edge of the garden. They were just able to see Kieran at the other end of the garden.

The ranger collapsed onto the bench and buried his head in his hands. He was shaking.

“Zevran.” He mumbled as the Antivan sat close beside him. “He… He’s my _son_. I have a _child_.”

Normally, Zevran would have made some quip about wild oats, but he doubted now was the time for a suggestive joke at Theron’s expense.

“He didn’t seem to recognise your name.” The blond offered instead. “Perhaps Morrigan didn’t tell him anything about you? Fed him some drivel about being Maker-sent.” Zevran wrinkled his nose in distaste at the idea of parents who skirted around the subject of telling their children where babies came from. Certainly not the Maker, in his experience.

Theron peered through his fingers towards the garden, eyes wide.

“Of course, if he’s here, that means she must be as well.” The Dalish elf realised with a sinking feeling that did nothing to ease his trembling. If anything, that made his guts twist into even tighter knots. Morrigan could well be here in Skyhold. What if they ran into each other? What if she already knew they were here? Gossip would travel quickly in a place like this.

Theron swallowed past the sudden lump of nausea in his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to keep his breathing slow. He looked over towards Kieran again, and froze like a rabbit when he saw her approach the boy - her son, _their_ son. Morrigan. She hadn’t aged a day since they’d last seen each other during the Battle of Denerim. Or _that_ night. She even seemed to be wearing the same clothes.

With a choked sound Theron ducked his head and curled in on himself, throat feeling constricted.

“Theron?” Zevran asked, concern evident in his voice. He turned slightly, edged closer as the ranger doubled up until his chest was almost parallel to his knees, curling up tightly on himself. “Shall we move elsewhere?” He asked, forcing himself to remain calm in the face of this odd new behaviour, how Theron had just been acting. Perhaps it had been a mistake to talk to Kieran, or linger afterwards. The last thing the ranger needed was to see the woman who’d plagued at least a third of his nightmares for the past decade.

“Don’t think I can.” Theron answered roughly, not looking up from his feet as he struggled to not gasp for breath. The blond frowned, but gently rested his hand on the Dalish elf’s hunched shoulder. He could feel the other elf trembling, his rapid breathing, and looked over towards Morrigan and Kieran again. How could two people inspire such a reaction when they’d only just met one, and hadn’t seen the other in ten years? Theron seemed to be downright terrified at just the sight of Morrigan from a distance, and whatever was happening to him right now because of it, Zevran was at a loss on how to help. This was something different to his usual nightmares.

“Oh, there they are.” A relieved, faintly accented voice came from their right, and Zevran looked up to see the Inquisitor walking towards them, trailed by a gangly young man who seemed tiny beside the Qunari, much of his face hidden by a frankly ridiculously oversized hat. “Are you-” She stopped when she saw Theron behind Zevran, and frowned. “Is he okay?”

Zevran flashed a smile, not removing his hand from the ranger’s back, and he edged slightly forwards on the bench to block a little more of their view.

“Would it be too much trouble to get him a glass of water, perhaps?” He answered, and the Inquisitor nodded even as she frowned in obvious concern for her guest, her curved horns stabbing the air. She turned and walked away, but the young man remained standing a short distance away. Zevran gave him a wary glance, but returned his attention to Theron. The ranger’s head was bowed, but he seemed to have recovered enough to pull the blond’s hand from his shoulder into his lap with shaking, clammy hands, holding it tightly.

“Choking fear, he can’t find the words he wants, even if he could say them. Tongue trapped, torn and tormented.”

The Antivan started at the unfamiliar voice, looking towards the young man who’d been standing to their right, but he wasn’t there. Somehow, he was now on the other side of them, crouched down near Theron and watching him closely.

“What?”

The young man looked at the blond, pale blue eyes half-hidden behind a screen of near-white hair.

“His throat is full of thorns and spider webs. Breathing is hard enough.”

“I gathered that.” Zevran answered, hearing Theron’s laboured breathing even if the worst of his trembling had passed.

“I’m Cole.”

“Zevran.”

“Zev to your friends.”

The Antivan narrowed his eyes again, disconcerted, but questions could wait.

“Too much at once. Your memories hurt like a knife in the chest, they turn to nightmares and what if, _what if_?” The boy, Cole seemed to be addressing Theron now. “You hurt so much, rabbit in the snare, halla in the spider web. I can help. The pain kills you, but it’s not real. You are not dying, not now.”

Zevran remained quiet, partly out of confusion, but he gently squeezed the ranger’s hand.

“It will be okay, _mi amor_.” He added softly, and that seemed to help Theron ground himself and start to calm down, breathing evening out from the ragged gasps.

Theron lifted his head up, just enough to wipe the tears from his cheeks and eyes with a shaky, but deep breath out. He sat up then, leaning back against the stone wall behind the bench with his head tilted up towards the ceiling, eyes closed. Zevran felt tension he hadn’t even known had built up leave him. Whatever that… Attack had been, it seemed to be over now.

Cole sat down on Theron’s other side, perched on the end of the bench with pale, long fingers splayed out on the top of his thighs. Zevran looked out towards the garden, and relief washed through him when he saw that Morrigan and Kieran were out of sight.

The three of them remained quiet, listening to the sounds of activity from the garden beyond as they sat wrapped up in their own thoughts. Zevran kept his hand in Theron’s lap, and gradually the ranger’s hands crept back, not clinging tightly but seeking reassurance all the same.

“Perhaps we should see if Skyhold has another garden, yes?” The blond suggested quietly.

Theron let out a humorless laugh, and got to his feet just as the Inquisitor approached once again.

"Let's get this over with." He muttered, as if nothing unusual had just happened.

"Is everything alright?" She asked, and the ranger nodded, his expression as guarded as ever.

"Yes. Lead the way." He insisted, determined now to share what knowledge he had acquired about the Calling.

 

That night, Zevran was careful to wait until Theron was asleep before he dressed and left the room, ignoring the faint aches moving earned him. He managed to find the rookery well enough, and smirked as he approached the hooded figure sitting behind the desk, a lone candle burning so she wasn’t writing correspondences in the dark.

“It is a lovely night, no?” He began, leaning his shoulder against a nearby beam, and Leliana looked up at him, lowering her quill.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you and Theron still travel together.” She answered, quickly writing a last sentence before she set the quill back in the inkpot and gave the former Crow her full attention.

“You have done well for yourself, a spymaster for the Inquisition. I’m sure the job has presented you countless opportunities.”

“Did you come all this way in the middle of the night just to say hello, Zevran?” Leliana asked, and the oddly annoyed tone to her voice made him pause. Perhaps he had interrupted a very important letter?

“No, I was simply wondering if you could direct me to Morrigan’s quarters.” He admitted.

“You do realise she has changed just as much as I, if not more. Ten years is a long time.”

“A long time indeed.”

“Kieran-”

“Yes, yes, the child. We met him today. Charming lad, if a little quiet.” Zevran waved a hand dismissively. They looked at each other silently for a moment, weighing each other up.

“I heard about what happened to Theron in the garden.”

“Such unfounded gossip, have you no better sources?”

“Cole was a rather reliable informant.”

Zevran blinked, expression blank.

“Who?” He asked, frowning. Cole… Did he know that name?

Leliana hesitated, and then shook her head.

“Is… He alright?” She asked to change the subject, looking down at her freshly-written letter.

“Theron? He is fine. I think it was the shock that did it.” A half-truth, but Zevran did not want to tell Leliana what had most likely triggered the panicked reaction, not unless Theron gave him permission. “Anyway, as much as I love our little chats - we should really have more, ten years is far too long - where is Morrigan’s room?”

“I doubt she will appreciate you, of all people, paying her a visit this late.”

“I do not intend to seek her appreciation.” Zevran’s face darkened for a second. “I have not waited a decade to exchange pleasantries with her.”

Leliana held his gaze, and realised that if she didn’t tell him he would most likely ask someone else, or perhaps go looking for Morrigan’s room himself. Resigning herself, she told the former Crow and watched him leave as quietly as he’d come.

Zevran was a shadow as he slipped through Skyhold. As well-guarded as the place was, it was simply too big for the number of nightly patrols they could afford; slipping past one was child’s play with sharper elven senses.

He soon found the door Leliana had directed him to, and carefully tried the lock. Unlocked. Hm. Preparing himself for anything, the blond slowly opened the door just wide enough to slip through, and pushed it shut behind him.

Morrigan’s room was similar to his and Theron’s own, but with screen set up to form a makeshift antechamber. Automatically, Zevran stood behind one, checking that his feet were in shadow against the small gap between the bottom of the screen and the floor. He peered round the edge of the screen cautiously. Morrigan was still awake, a magically-conjured light floating on the bedside table as she read from a large book.

Ten years, and she barely seemed to have changed. That same sharp yellow gaze, even her hair was in the same style. Zevran licked his lips, knowing that he would be foolish to underestimate Morrigan. She had had a child in the past ten years, and who was to say that was the only thing she had gained?

Zevran cleared his throat politely as he stepped out from behind the screen into view; Morrigan set the book down and looked at him.

“I wondered when you would come creeping into my chamber, assassin.” She said, voice carrying across the room. She seemed unconcerned, wasn’t even surprised to see him again after ten years.

“If only there had been time during the day.” Zevran sighed wistfully, restraining himself from putting his hands on his daggers. Instead he stepped forwards, into the room. “I have waited ten years, and it turns out I can wait a few more hours.” He added casually, looking around the bedroom. No skulls or sacrificed herd animals, a pity.

“What do you want?” Morrigan asked, sitting up in bed. Zevran turned to her, finally letting his anger out.

“Don’t you have any idea what you did to him, you heartless _perra_?” He asked, voice harsh and his accent thickening with anger. “For ten years he’s had nightmares about you and that night. Sometimes the nightmares were about the Archdemon, or some terrible mix between the two.” He explained, glaring at the witch. “To him, you were far worse than an Archdemon, and he blamed himself for everything that happened.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Zevran gritted his teeth. There was no way Morrigan could have truly felt so uninterested, she had to have been pretending.

“No, it is not. You may have been unaware of what happened in the garden, but he was in shock after he spoke to that son of yours, the one he had so far tried to forget existed. When he saw you, that sent him over the edge. He could not speak, something that normally only occurs after his nightmares, and he could hardly breath.” The Antivan continued. “I think it would be most unwise if he saw you again, and I dread to think what would happen if you spoke to him.”

“A pity.”

Zevran swallowed his rage. To be blinded by his emotions would make him vulnerable. He took a measured breath.

“Do you care so little for him? You bore his child, does that not mean _anything_ even to a witch like you?” Zevran shook his head. “Did you ever care for him, or did you simply use him?”

Morrigan continued to stare at the blond, catlike, and then her shoulders slowly fell. Zevran knew he had touched a nerve, made a crack in that insufferable mask of hers.

“Make no mistake, I would not give Kieran up for anything now. The circumstances of that night, however… I have always regretted them, wished to change them. I did not want to cause Theron suffering, and truthfully I did not expect it to have affected him so deeply or for so long.” Morrigan began quietly. “But I did what I did so that he would survive that fight. I did not want to stand idly by to watch him kill himself when I knew of his salvation. I left as soon as the battle was over so my presence would not cause him more pain.” She was quiet. “I have had ample time to reflect upon why he said yes when he was clearly reluctant, and I came to the conclusion that he agreed for your sake. Theron said yes because he was a fool in love.”

“You think I don’t know that? He told me why already, it is hardly news.” Zevran answered, and he let out a tense sigh, shaking his head. “The past is in the past, no? I think it would be best if you did your best to avoid both you and Kieran coming into contact with Theron again for the duration of our stay.” He advised, looking towards the screens and the door wreathed in shadow beyond. “We have come so Theron can inform and help the Inquisition as much as he can in regards to the Calling, and he cannot have further traumas distracting him from that duty.”

His piece done, Zevran turned and began to walk to the door.

“You know he is hearing the Calling, correct?” Morrigan’s voice made him hesitate before he turned back with a frown.

“That false Calling from Corypheus? That did not affect him because we were not in Orlais at the time.” He replied, but the witch slowly shook her head.

“It is faint, oh so faint. A hum in the back of his mind, a darkness forgotten when he wakes. He is not aware of it yet. But tis there nevertheless. The _true_ Calling.”

“How can you know something like that? You lie.”

“By all means, say that if it will comfort you. But Theron is a man currently living on borrowed time, Zevran. I do not wish to see him suffer. All I can do is keep my distance and hope that with the Inquisition’s help he can follow whatever leads you have discovered and find a cure for the Calling before he succumbs.”

Zevran stared at her, his earlier words to himself about vulnerability forgotten. It was as if a hole had opened up beneath him, and the only thing left to cling to was Morrigan’s words. Her warning.

“Why are you telling me this?” The Antivan snapped, tasting ashes where seconds ago there had been rage.

“Because, as much as you seem to have convinced yourself otherwise in the ten years spent comforting him and demonising me for trying to help, I care about Theron just as much as you, in my own way.” Morrigan informed him, her mask of indifference back in place. “Now, if you would kindly begone?” She asked, gesturing to the door.

The blond let out a shocked breath, and then stormed from the room. Not because Morrigan had told him to, but because he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to return to Theron. He tried not to run.

Of course the ranger was still fast asleep when he opened the door, stretched out on his back with the blankets pushed down to his stomach. Zevran swallowed, leaning back against the closed door as he stared at the other elf lying blissfully unaware in the soft moonlight that shone down through a window.

How could Morrigan have known? Through magic, was his first and natural assumption. There was no telling exactly how much she knew that other mages did not. Zevran’s heart was pounding, and he felt sick as he watched the ranger’s scarred chest rise and fall slowly.

There was no visible difference, would hopefully not be for a long time. But as Zevran stared at Theron’s peaceful form until his racing heart and quietly panicked breathing slowed, he knew he couldn’t allow there to be a change. He would not watch the ranger begin to suffer.

The Antivan returned slowly to the bed, curling around the Dalish elf tightly.

“I will help you and the Inquisition in whatever way I can to find that cure.” He whispered firmly to the quiet room, an oath he meant every word of even though Theron wasn’t awake to hear it. “I will not let that ritual take you away from me, now or ever.”

 

The next day, for the most part, saw Theron in the War Room discussing various matters related to the end of the world. Zevran was not allowed through, so instead he waited in Josephine’s office and talked away the hours in their native tongue. It was interesting, meeting the heiress of the noble Montilyet family, and then discovering just how different the lives of a whoreson Crow and a noblewoman were.

Several members of Inquisitor Adaar’s so-called inner circle came and went if they were needed for advice, including another Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall with a highly impressive beard, and a strange bald elf named Solas.

Eventually, the meeting drew to a close for the day, and the two elves were free to do what they wished. Not eager for a repeat of yesterday, they found themselves on the floor below the library and the rookery.

The elven mage, Solas, was there. He looked up from the sheaves of paper on a small table, some of them weighed down by a chunk of rock that glowed blue.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Solas.” Theron greeted him, before looking around the room at the murals on the wall. Zevran was sharp enough to notice the quick smile of indulgence the other elf wore, as if Theron was a young child who had just said something obvious or unintelligent, but was in need of praise regardless.

“ _Andaran atish’an_.” The bald mage replied. “What brings you both here?”

“Simply wandering.” Zevran shrugged.

“So, how are you finding Skyhold? I trust you haven’t gotten lost yet?”

Theron smirked, and shook his head.

“No, but it’s a matter of time. I’m used to the open road.”

“I suspect your Dalish roots have been the cause of that.” Solas observed, looking at the ranger’s _vallaslin_. Theron raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps.” He agreed slowly. “While we are on the subject… Are you a city elf? I see no _vallaslin_.”

Solas shook his head, and folded his arms.

“I am neither Dalish nor city elf. I spent much of my life alone in the wilderness.” He explained. “Although, I have naturally had contact with some of your people, such meetings were often… Brief.”

“Why?”

“The Dalish are a proud people. Some would say stubborn.”

“The Dalish are the best hope for preserving and restoring the culture of our people.” Theron pointed out.

“Our people.” Solas repeated sadly. “You use that phrase so casually. They already consider themselves perfect, the sole keepers of Elven lore, the walkers of the lonely path, even though they pass on stories misheard and mangle details a thousand times over. Most care little about improving their lives.” Solas explained calmly, and Zevran kept a careful eye on the black-haired elf next to him. “When I offered them lessons on what I learnt in my travels, I was derided by enemies and allies both. Over time, it grinds away at you. Now, I suppose I am tired of fighting, trying to allow them to see beyond the scraps of legends that faulty memories and uncertain tongues have shaped into incorrect myths.”

The ranger seemed more surprised or shocked than angry at Solas’ words - for now, at least.

“So you know the truth, do you? Why not share it?” He asked.

“I have seen things they have not. Yet I was not worth listening to, because I was not of them. I was a liar, a fool, a madman. They did not want me to share what I had learnt.” The mage replied. “They cling to the parts of their history they know already, and are too used to it to accept anything new and different.”

The line of Theron’s jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. The shock had worn off, then.

“You insult our people. My people. _Ma halani, lasa ghilan_.”

Solas closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed wearily.

“How many of the Dalish would listen if I tried? I might reach a few at the most.”

The ranger outright glared at the mage, his grey eyes growing cold.

“ _Ma banal las halamshir var vhen_.”

“I have done no such thing. I simply see no way to help them, oppressed as they are now. Perhaps they do not want help.”

Theron took a breath, no doubt to say something else Zevran presumed was an insult or disagreement, and he reached out to gently touch the ranger’s forearm. Theron looked at him, expression softening.

“Perhaps now would be an ideal time to leave, yes?” The Antivan suggested quietly, and the ranger nodded. They turned to leave the way they had come, back into the main hall, Zevran keeping his hand on Theron’s arm.

“You are right, you know.” Solas ventured from behind them. “The fault is mine for expecting what the Dalish can never truly accomplish. _Ir abelas, da’len_.”

“ _Dirthara-ma_.” Theron shot bitterly over one shoulder as Zevran led him away, back to their room.

The blond sighed quietly to himself, realising they now had three people to avoid. Hopefully the Dalish elf would rediscover his sociable side before they met and talked to any other important people in Skyhold.

“That was a pleasant conversation.” Zevran teased once they were alone in their room, glad that it was warmer now. Theron snorted, but that seemed to chase away some of the lingering anger.

“At first, yes.” The ranger agreed, wandering over to a window and looking out. “So, what did you do while I was talking with the Inquisitor and her entourage all day?” He asked as Zevran joined him and leaned against his shoulder.

“I sat and talked to the stunning Lady Josephine about Antiva, and our respective upbringings. It was very enlightening, learning a little more about how the other half lives.” The blond answered, wrapping an arm loosely around the other elf’s waist as they stood together.

They were quiet for a few heartbeats.

“Do you think I’m stubborn?” Theron asked. Zevran smiled.

“Would you be annoyed with me if I lied or danced around the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Well… Occasionally, yes. But you have your reasons for that stubbornness. You are not stubborn for the sake of it like a mule.” The blond paused. “And I think that stubbornness will serve you well - has already. You could use it to find the cure, for example.” He grinned, in an attempt to make the suggestion seem less serious.

Theron looked at him, and smiled faintly.

“Do you think I ever will, even with the Inquisition’s help?” He asked softly. “I only have a handful of leads, and few are truly promising.” He looked away, shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh. “Sometimes when I stop and think about it, I feel like the whole endeavour is impossible.”

Zevran’s arm around his waist tightened, and he leant his head against the blond’s shoulder.

“I have faith that you will, _amor_.” The former Crow answered. “If you can slay the Archdemon and live to grow tired of people thinking of you as a hero for saving the world, then you can certainly save yourself.” Zevran turned his head so he could kiss the ranger’s temple. “Do not doubt yourself. It is a difficult task, but not impossible, and I will be with you every step of the way, make no mistake.” Their gazes met, grey on gold. “I am yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amusingly, I almost forgot to tag Cole. I also had to watch so many videos of Solas talking about elves so I could nick the dialogue.  
> Translations:  
> Andaran atish’an - Enter this place in peace. A formal Elven greeting.  
> Ma halani, lasa ghilan - You should teach us!  
> Ma banal las halamshir var vhen - You have abandoned the elves.  
> Ir abelas, da’len - My apologies, child.  
> Dirthara-ma - May you learn. A Dalish insult.


	2. Fade Dreams

Solas was familiar with Skyhold, even in sleep. It was shaped by the thousands of dreams it held, both past and present. Some were as old as the foundation stones, and if he lingered he could see any part of the fortress as it had once been before the Inquisition had claimed it - in disrepair, under one of many forces of command long ago, or not even built, so the mountain winds howled and screamed around him with no thick stone to block them out.

Tonight as he walked Skyhold in it’s present state, his feet took him closer to one of the guest rooms, where the Hero of Ferelden and his lover slept, if he remembered correctly. Solas had no intention of spying, rarely had on the dreams and memories of those still alive unless necessity demanded it, but as he drew close to the door, intending to pass by it entirely, the corridor darkened around him. He stopped and watched the torches set at intervals along the stone wall dim and gutter, before they were plunged into blackness.

Unusual, but Solas was not concerned. There was no harm to be found in mere dreams. Then the hissing began, something at the edge of his hearing in the darkness behind him. He turned, but there was only the window at the end of the corridor overlooking the midnight valleys below.

The rift mage stood absolutely still, waiting and listening. There it was again, the hissing. It would have been a disservice to compare it to a snake. It seemed to be more than one speaker, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of voices, all whispering something indecipherable in the swallowing, gaping blackness. Solas realised that perhaps they _were_ speaking, whispering hushed things to themselves. Whatever the words were, he could not make any of them out. It occurred to him that he had never come across the dreams of a Grey Warden before. Was this Theron’s?

The roar that shook the corridor, dislodging centuries-old dust from the ceiling and walls from the sound of it, was entirely unexpected. The torches brightened again, and revealed a change in surroundings. Blood stained the walls and floor, and for a moment Solas wondered if he had accidently stumbled into another dream from the past instead, when Skyhold had seen intense, brutal wars within it’s thick walls. But the stone was different, a lighter grey, a different cut. The blood was dark, but fresh, gleaming wet in the flickering light. Solas looked down the corridor, and saw there were no doors leading to guest rooms, and the corridor turned the other way. Wherever he was, it was no longer Skyhold.

Careful now he was most likely in another’s dream, the elven mage followed the bloodstains. At the end of the corridor was a set of stairs, which he had little choice but to climb. They seemed to go on forever, a common occurrence in dreams.

However these stairs had an end, and Solas eventually found himself on the roof of a building that seemed to tower high above any others. The air was dark with smoke, and a vivid blood red sky stretched overhead. But that was not what caught Solas' eye.

Before him, across the stone roof, rose an immense snake-like creature, it's mouth bristling with far too many teeth. Solas would have dismissed it as some draconic monster of the nightmare, had he not known better and it not let out another deafening roar that shook the skies. It flared tattered wings wide, rearing up on it's hind legs and raising milky corrupted eyes to the clouds of black smoke overhead. An Archdemon.

Solas knew precisely when and where he was now. Denerim, the top of Fort Drakon, no doubt on the day the Hero of Ferelden earned that very title. This was indeed his dream. There was something about the intensity of his surroundings that suggested this was not the first such dream, in fact. Was the great Hero of Ferelden reliving his glory days?

As the Archdemon planted it’s taloned feet back on the ground, Solas finally saw the young elf standing before it, bow in one hand and body tensed, so small and looking so very vulnerable. What happened next was due to a momentary lapse on the watching mage’s part.

One second he was standing watching Theron and the Archdemon from a distance, and then he was standing in Theron’s place, staring almost straight up at the serpentine creature. Taking someone’s place in a dream, seeing it through their eyes rather than as an observer and feeling everything they felt, that was something from dreams that had already occurred, or strong enough memories. Theron had dreamed this before, and often.

Solas stared up at the corrupted dragon, taking in the slightly exaggerated scale of the creature. How much larger and fearsome it seemed to be in a dream, the narrow head a mile away, the mass of teeth sharper than daggers. He could feel Theron’s near-overwhelming terror low in his own stomach, in the way each rapid breath suddenly caught in his throat. Was this even a dream? His ears rang with the fading sound of the dragon’s roar. His head hurt unbearably, felt like it would split in two, but beneath that and the ringing, there was something else. A beautiful song, louder than he’d ever heard it before, scratching at the walls.

Like the hissing in the corridor, Solas could not understand the words, or know for certain if there even were words. But the song was so compelling it didn’t need words. _Put down your weapon_ , it suggested, sickly sweet in the back of his mind. _Stop fighting._ Solas gripped tightly at the shaped wood in his hand - whether bow or staff he was uncertain, and he found himself unable to look away from the colossal dragon to check. _You are one of us, you should be with us instead of them_ , the song continued. No… This was no dream.

The Archdemon towered above him, memory and nightmare both, scaled purple hide gleaming blood red under the cruel sun. Staring at him impassively like he was an ant before a god. An ant with just a stick to defend itself with against an Old God. No wonder Theron was terrified, no wonder it was a nightmare.

Then that great maw descended, shadow blocking out the blood red light apart from where it gleamed on jagged teeth in jaws stretched wide, the world narrowed down to them and then alone in the time it took to blink. It was over in a second - Theron and nightmare both. Solas woke up slowly, with a distinct chill as Theron’s terror lingered on in the waking world. No doubt the Dalish elf had woken up as well, as he must always have done at the end of this nightmare.

 

Theron stared up at the Archdemon towering above him as the echoes of it’s roar faded, even the feeling of his bow held tightly in one hand doing little to reassure him or still his trembling. Here he stood, an ant before a god, armed with a glorified stick.

He was looking almost directly upwards to keep the Archdemon's head in view, all out terror coiled low in his gut that threatened to overwhelm him entirely, to block out even the pounding in his head that made him feel like it was about to split in two, and the beautiful, terrible song underneath it, that weaved in and out of the pain effortlessly.

 _Put down your weapon_ , it suggested. _Stop fighting._ Theron gripped tightly at the wood of his bow, unable to look away from the Archdemon, it's eyes milky with corruption, the maw full of glistening teeth silhouetted against a blood-red sky. _You are one of us, you should be with us instead of them_ , the song continued as the Archdemon stared back at him impassively. He was nothing, and it was a god that would burn the world.

He’d dreamed this so many times, and a part of him knew what was going to happen next, but that never made the fear go away. If anything, that made it worse.

The great maw descended suddenly, quick as a snake’s strike, the shadow blocking out blood red light apart from where it gleamed on jagged teeth in jaws stretched wide, the world narrowed down to them alone in the time it took to blink. It was over in a second.  

The ranger woke up with a start, sitting up with a gasp. He felt chilled to the bone with fear, his shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his back. He swallowed, wide-eyed. Come to think of it, his trousers seemed to be damp as well this time, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Warm and we-

Oh, Creators, no.

Theron didn't need to push back the covers to confirm what he'd dreaded, but he did anyway. He sat for a moment, gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt his jaw as his eyes stung fiercely in warning, in humiliation and shame until it threatened to choke him.

He couldn’t make a sound, not yet. He’d wake Zevran. The Dalish elf’s eyes widened and the bottom of his stomach fell away as his brain recollected itself just long enough to remember the blond was still asleep next to him. He’d wake up eventually, and then what? What would he think? What would he say? Would he be disgusted?

Theron felt ill just thinking about it. He risked a glance at the sleeping elf beside him, before he silently got to his feet, slipping out of bed miserably. His eyes were still wide, and not because of the pre-dawn light that filtered in through the windows. He ignored the offered view of the mountains around Skyhold for once; the shadow of the Archdemon was still over him, and he couldn’t help but feel the fangs digging into his midsection, front and back. The scarred clawmarks on his side ached faintly, as they always did after that particular nightmare.

It took the ranger a few seconds to remember his discomfort, and with a muffled curse he pulled his wet things off gladly, throwing them to the floor uncaringly. He felt unclean and disgusting. He _was_ disgusting. It was just a nightmare, the same as any other. Why had… That happened? Why now?

“Are you alright?”

Zevran’s gentle question made him start, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to look back at the bed, to see the moment of disgusted realisation if it hadn’t occurred already. Theron remained silent, eyes still burning and throat choked with mortification. He doubted that he would be able to speak just yet. He didn’t know what he would say, even if he wanted to say anything.

“I take it it was another nightmare?” The blond asked, and the ranger listened as the blankets moved, were pushed back entirely, the quiet sound of bare feet on the stone floor padding towards him. Theron tried not to shiver at the cool air on his damp skin, but bowed his head in shame when he saw Zevran out of the corner of his eye.

His eyes stung painfully, and when he next blinked they were watering. Wonderful, another thing he couldn’t control anymore. Theron’s face burned, all the way to the tips of his ears, matched the shame burning low in his stomach where sheer terror had been. He was weak, and couldn’t control himself in the face of his nightmares.

“ _Mi amor_.” He heard Zevran sigh to himself, and try as he might he couldn’t detect a disappointed or annoyed tone to the phrase. All the same, he still waited for the former Crow to continue speaking, to perhaps make a comment that hinted his patience was finally at an end, that this was too much, that one of them had better find another bedroom. Theron waited for the inevitable rejection, heart uncomfortably in his stomach as a tear dripped unchecked down his cheek, soon followed by another. His pulse beat thickly in his throat, thudding uncomfortably.

The Antivan stepped closer, and slowly reached a hand out towards the black-haired elf’s bare shoulder, as always giving him time to pull away. Theron did this time, taking a half-step to the side and keeping his head down in a useless attempt to keep his tears hidden. He didn’t deserve to have Zevran comfort him, not this time. The blond’s outstretched arm hung for a second, before it slowly fell back to his side.

They stood silently, Theron hyperaware of the former Crow’s gaze on him as he tried and failed to stop crying, wishing he could disappear. This was humiliating, losing control of himself in such a way.

Eventually, Zevran turned and walked away to the dresser, picking up a used towel one of them had draped over a chair the previous night on the way. When he returned with a pair of clean trousers, the blond handed the towel over quietly and set the trousers down nearby.

“I think it is just early enough to excuse waking up a few staff members to run a morning bath, yes?” The blond suggested calmly. “I will not be long, _amor_.” He added with a faint, wolfish smile, before he was opening the door and padding away on silent feet down the corridor. Theron stared blankly at the door as it swung closed again, leaving him in the silence of an empty room before he wasted no time in cleaning himself up. It didn’t help with the smell, of course, but at least he wouldn’t be shivering for much longer.

The ranger was dressed and sitting by the cold hearth when Zevran returned, curled up in the armchair with his chin resting on his knees. He let himself be led out of the room to one of the bathrooms, the Antivan keeping up a quiet but steady chatter about the completely mundane things he’d done or seen around Skyhold that no doubt was to try and distract him, something he always did after the nightmares. Theron felt his heart clench, eyes stinging again. Damn Zevran for caring so much.

The corridor was mercifully empty this early in the day, and so was the bathroom Zevran proudly showed him, steam wafting in the dawn light that filtered through a window set high in the stone wall, and the lit candles where the natural light was too weak to reach. Zevran gently coaxed the ranger into undressing and then sitting in the warm bath, and it seemed disgust or irritation was the furthest thing from his mind.

Theron closed his eyes as the Antivan kept talking, letting the words wash over him as much he did the water and soap, scrubbing away any trace of bodily fluids until he felt reassured that he’d left no inch of skin uncleaned.

“... So I now know how to swear rather fluently in Tevene. Who knew all it would have taken was one flustered necromancer?” Zevran chuckled, the sound trailing off into a happy sigh as he leant patiently against the closed door.

Once again they looked at each other quietly, until Theron managed to find his voice.

“Is it possible to die of mortification?” The black-haired elf asked gravely, drawing a soft but not unkind laugh from the other elf.

“If it was, you have had a very close call.” Zevran mused, ensuring the door was locked before he walked over to the bath. Someone accidentally coming into the room thinking it was empty would no doubt give Theron another unneeded dose of trauma for one day. The blond knelt down beside the bath, watching the ranger. Of course, the Dalish elf was the first to look away.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Zevran frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“I mean all of this.” Theron gestured with a dripping hand to himself. “The nightmares, me always waking you up. And now… This.” He looked down at himself, and despite the warm water that lapped at his ribs he shivered slightly. Zevran tutted in response.

“I can deal with a lack of sleep far better than a distressed lover, you know. The benefits of Crow training, no? And what happened, I am more concerned about what caused it. You don’t have to say sorry for something you couldn’t even control.” The blond answered firmly. “You don’t need to be ashamed of it either, _mi amor_. You should know by now that I won’t think less of you.”

“I _do_ need to be ashamed of it.” Theron insisted as he slowly got out of the bath and dried himself with the offered towel. He’d worried about Zevran’s reaction, but the blond’s complete _lack_ of a reaction confused him. Zevran shrugged casually.

“If that is what you wish, then so be it. But if you think I was angry with you for it, or disgusted, that is not true. You have had nightmares for a decade now. Your mind has dragged you back through those worst days and nights repeatedly, torturing you from within in a way the rack and magic cannot hope to achieve, and this was the first time that ever happened - unless you have been far more discreet than you already are, of course. You are stronger than you think or perhaps even know, _amor_ , far stronger. I admire you for it.” The former Crow admitted. Theron stared again in surprise at the compliment, before he looked down and wrapped the towel round his now-dry waist.

Zevran… Understood? The Dalish elf studied the other elf’s face as intently as he would a set of tracks, and still couldn’t find any trace of disgust or pity. Zevran understood what it was like to not be in control, to be rendered weak and feel helpless, because he had been through similar under the Crows. And then rather than scorn it when it appeared in someone else, he offered support. Of course he did.

The Dalish elf let himself be led back down the corridor, a little quicker this time now he had recollected himself and the rest of Skyhold was beginning to stir around them. When they entered the room, the windows had been opened and fragrant flowers placed, the bedding changed, all evidence gone with the lingering night, and a growing fire now burned in the hearth to compensate for the sudden introduction of mountain air into the tidy room.

That eased his humiliation, at least. The black-haired elf sighed deeply, and pulled his plainclothes on, to Zevran’s half-joking protests that restored the final piece of normality.

“So, do you wish to talk about the nightmare?” The blond asked once they were both dressed for the day and sitting by the fire.

Theron hesitated.

"I'm not sure what made it different to any others." He shrugged. "I've had it before, this nightmare about the Archdemon."

“How often?” Zevran asked, and Theron wondered if he saw a flash of concern on the assassin’s face as he nodded.

“For the past few nights.” He admitted with a tired sigh. “It’s an unpleasant one. But _that_ never happened until tonight... Today?”

He noticed Zevran's curious look, and realised he needed to elaborate. "In this one, we... Failed spectacularly in killing the Archdemon, I think. I assume so, at least. And it's always standing nearly on top of me, twice as big as it actually was. The dream - the nightmare - always ends once it decides to eat me rather than stare." The Dalish elf explained, and Zevran winced in sympathy.

The black-haired elf caught the expression, and smiled grimly.

“But thank you, _lath_.” He added softly, reaching over to take Zevran’s hand in his. The Antivan smiled warmly in response, reassuring, but the smile didn’t quite reach his golden eyes.

 

Solas kept a discreet eye on Theron for any sign of a disturbance the morning after the nightmare, but the ranger was as impassive as ever. Solas was unsure whether his presence in the nightmare had been detected, but Theron only behaved towards him with civil politeness and aloofness when their paths crossed - no doubt due to his earlier insults towards the Dalish.

Then again, the mage reasoned with himself, if Theron suffered from regular nightmares, and had done so for nearly a decade, he would have learnt to cope with them somehow, if not hide the knowledge from those who would otherwise ask concerned but well-meaning questions.

 

Several nights later, Solas once more found himself drawn to the corridor, admittedly out of a kind of morbid curiosity. As controlled as Theron kept his emotions during the day, it seemed to be a different story come sleep.

Solas barely had time to wonder if he would be privy to the hissing again when the torches dimmed, but didn't go out entirely. All the same, he could feel rather than see the corridor he had just walked down change, back to the cut grey stone from the last nightmare. This time there were doors, but not as many that lined Skyhold’s corridor, and the far-off sounds of screaming.

Cautious, the mage held a hand out and willed his staff into it before he began looking for the source of the noise. Again, he doubted he would come to harm, but the feeling of the weapon in his hand was reassuring, as much as he had found reassurance through Theron’s eyes by gripping his bow. Perhaps it was a lingering influence, now he was back in the ranger’s dreams.

This time, there was a door at the end of the corridor, one that was pushed open readily. Solas found himself overlooking what could only have been the torture chamber of a fortress, a kind of balcony with a flight of stairs that led down to the main level of the room, all stone.

There were people here, figments of the dream. Human guards, who lounged as if they had nowhere more interesting to be. A wild scream from the floor below drew the mage’s attention, and though he was cautious of the guards knew they could do little as he walked to the edge of the balcony.

There was a table down there, one of several. There were ropes attached to drums at either end of the tables, and on the tables that weren’t empty the ropes were tied around wrists and ankles. And, the mage realised that Theron was tied to one of those tables, and that he was most likely the one who had just screamed.

The ranger was lying on his stomach, the muscles in his back heaving as he panted for breath. Solas felt the hum of magic in the air as it brushed against his skin, and saw one of the men standing beside the table with a palmful of fire. Then he looked towards the ranger’s exposed back, and the sight made his stomach turn. Theron’s shoulders were a mess of fresh burns, skin blistered and scorched where it hadn’t opened to glisten with blood and weep clear discharge, the faint outlines of handprints just visible. Clearly he’d arrived in the middle of a torture session.

“Confess!” A second man barked from the head of the table, the only thing in Theron’s field of view apart from the walls of the room, with the air of a man at the end of his patience. The ranger remained silent, glaring up at the man, who nodded to the waiting mage after a few seconds. The fire in the mage’s palm flared with a crackle, and then the hand was slapped onto Theron’s shoulderblade.

The flames licked at his skin, and Solas caught the scent of charred flesh as Theron _howled_ in agony, blindly trying to kick and escape from the pain, but because he was tied down all he could do was writhe and strain against the ropes, blunt nails scrabbling at the rough, bloodstained wood of the table until the mage withdrew his hand to survey his handiwork.

“What about now? Are you going to confess to killing the Arl? Admit to treason, or does a savage like you not know the meaning of the word?” The second man asked, leaning down so he was eye to eye with the Dalish elf lying on the table. Theron lifted his head up, blinking away tears of pain so they dripped freely down his cheeks to mingle with the blood on the table. His jaw worked in the expectant silence, and then he spat at the man’s eye.

“ _Fenedhis lasa, shemlen’alas lath’din_.” His voice was hoarse and cracked like thin ice; from where he stood, Solas had difficulty making out the words.

The man swore at him for that, wiping his face as he stormed away in disgust.

“We have all day. Do as you wish with him, see if you can find something that’ll break him for Loghain. Don’t stop until he confesses.” He called back to the mage as he left the room through another door. The mage nodded, and Solas turned away just before he heard another scream from the rack. He bowed his head, and quickly left the nightmare.

He could have gone down there, of course, and ended the nightmare for Theron, but what good would it do? If the Dalish elf had suffered for ten years, what was one night of the nightmare being interrupted amongst that? All it would do would make Theron realise his nightmares were being watched by the very elf he had disagreed with, and the kind of confrontation the knowledge would allow would not help either of them, or the Inquisition. But for him to suffer like that in life until it was another repeated nightmare… Solas was glad that he had not ended up experiencing this nightmare through the Dalish elf’s eyes.

 

Zevran was woken by Theron leaving the bed. He opened his eyes and sat up quickly, even though it was too dark in the room to see exactly what was going on. He could hear well enough, hear the faint sounds of bare feet on the stone floor, pacing.

"Theron?" He asked after a few minutes of silence apart from the ranger’s heavy breathing from somewhere to the right of the bed, keeping his voice gentle. The blond waited patiently for what felt like an hour in the darkness, until he felt the mattress dip with another’s weight as Theron sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"It won’t end."

Zevran moved closer, until he was sitting next to the ranger, but remained silent.

"It doesn’t matter what nightmare I have anymore, all the screams sound the same, and…" The ranger’s voice cracked, and he trailed off. No doubt to try and stop himself from crying. The Antivan sat there, wishing he could do anything more to help Theron beyond comfort him. Wish that the ranger’s words didn’t fill him with cold dread now Morrigan had made him privy to a knowledge about Theron that perhaps he himself wasn’t aware of yet.

He had watched Theron save the world, and now he was watching the result of such a massive strain. In times like this it was as if the stoic elf that had recruited him so long ago had disappeared. Zevran had watched that gradual going away over countless nights, helpless to stop it. What was left of Theron now was a husk, a ghost, plagued with nightmares of the past; Zevran had the suspicion that he was not woken by all of the nightmares Theron suffered.

The Blight had torn Theron apart, and there was nothing either of them could do to truly fix it. Zevran reached out carefully in the darkness until his fingers touched the ranger’s bowed, scarred shoulder. He felt Theron flinch at the unexpected touch, but kept his hand there patiently until the ranger leaned back against him, seeking reassurance.

"You know, I miss our little night-time talks." The blond commented at length, gently coaxing the ranger to lie back on the bed with him as he stifled a yawn, holding the black-haired elf tightly. "But perhaps it is still early enough in the day for us to go back to sleep, yes?" He suggested with a soft laugh, feeling Theron slowly relax in his arms, rest his head against his chest. Seeing the ranger when he was so vulnerable and shaken… It killed Zevran, to see him this way.

 

“A word of advice,” Zevran began, leaning back in his chair as he sat next to Bull, glancing down into his mug absently before he continued, the better to raise anticipation amid the noon chatter from the tavern around them. “Don’t ever try to tie Theron up, for any reason.”

The massive Qunari raised one scarred eyebrow.

“Why not? Some people enjoy being tied up.”

“Yes, but it turns out that Theron is not one of those people. It’s a boring story, really. He chewed through the rope surprisingly quickly, and it took him a while to calm down afterwards. It makes me think he has been tied up like that before, perhaps under less pleasant circumstances, but he has never deigned to explain. So, yes, don’t tie him up…”

Bull laughed, his massive shoulders shaking.

“He _chewed_ through the rope?”

“Yes, rendering it a waste of money and effort. I would have untied it if I had known, but how was I to know he had such strong teeth?” Zevran sighed, taking a drink. He was immensely glad that the ranger was down at the stables, no doubt pestering the stablemaster once again about the Harts. Otherwise, he would never have gotten away with telling this particular story from long, long ago to anyone if he intended to continue breathing afterwards. “Oh, and must I say that this is _never_ spoken of around Theron?” He added, and Bull nodded in a solemn promise.

“You got it.”

The Antivan grinned. He’d managed to find an unexpected friend in the Qunari man, and now often spent his considerable amount of free time in the tavern with Bull or Sera if Theron was busy with other matters.

“It was such a shame, I had many plans for that rope.” Zevran sighed dramatically.

“You could always try again?”

“I doubt I can. Certainly not with Theron, at any rate.” The blond shook his head. “No, if a plan doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work. It’s not worth making Theron uncomfortable again.”

Iron Bull nodded sagely in agreement, downing what remained of his own drink.

“Ah, here you are.”

The two looked up at the unexpected voice to see a certain elven mage standing patiently.

“Never thought I’d see you in here, Solas.” Iron Bull commented, grabbing a nearby vacant seat and pushing it over with one foot.

Solas accepted the chair, angling it slightly towards the other elf as he sat down across from Zevran.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you. Zevran, wasn’t it?”

The Antivan raised an eyebrow curiously, unable to think of any reason why Solas would be interested in a conversation with him, but he nodded in assent.

“Zev to my friends, but it is rare that I hear that nickname.” He added, setting his mug down beside one of his chair legs and watching the other elf curiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Rather unsurprisingly, Theron. Seeing how I seem to have made a terrible impression, I doubt he would talk to me outside of our war room discussions on Corypheus.”

“Ah, that’s understandable.”

“What’d you do?” Iron Bull asked. Solas hesitated, while Zevran bit back a dry grin.

“I… Spoke about the Dalish in a way Theron took as an insult.” The mage answered carefully, to Iron Bull’s amusement.

“He seems to be pretty invested in his heritage.”

“Oh, he is.” Zevran reassured Bull, picking his drink up again. “Anyway, what did you wish to know?” He asked, looking at Solas expectantly as he took a sip from his tankard.

“I can’t imagine the Hero of Ferelden emerging from saving the world without a few scars.” Solas began. “Does he have nightmares?” He asked, and the blond lowered his tankard, expression carefully blank for a second before he spoke.

“Regularly.” Zevran sighed, looking down at the contents of his tankard. For a second, he looked worn out, but the moment passed.

“About the Blight?”

“Yes, among other things.”

“Such as?”

Zevran narrowed his eyes slightly, and Solas wondered if he had overstepped his boundary.

“I do not think I can discuss that.” The former Crow answered slowly, and then he smirked. “Theron would have my head, no doubt.”

“Still, nightmares about all the crap he must have gone through?” Bull shook his head minutely, aware of his horns. “Ten years later… Has he always had them?”

Zevran finished off his drink before he answered.

“If you are talking about over the past decade, then yes. As we drew closer to finally saving the world, many things, ah, built up on top of his nightmares about the darkspawn and the Archdemon.”

Solas was quiet as he remembered the hisses in the dark, the pounding headache and the beautiful song, a fanged maw that seemed to be stained red with blood and light, the screams of agony and the smell of burnt flesh.

“Damn.” Iron Bull muttered.

“Now it is rare he goes a week without at least one nightmare about one thing or another.” The Antivan sighed, neglecting to mention that the frequency seemed to be increasing the more time passed, or how it was starting to worry him now he'd spoken with Morrigan.

The three grew silent for a few seconds, wrapped up in their own thoughts.

“Such a grim topic, no?” Zevran asked, twisting in his seat so he could gesture to the tavern maid currently talking to Krem for another round. “I am sorry that Theron hasn’t gotten over his stubbornness yet, Solas. He is perfectly decent once he warms up to someone. I may need to discuss this with him later.”

The other elf shook his head.

“The blame lies with me. I should have known better than to voice my opinion around a Dalish elf. It has happened before, with worse results than mere avoidance.” Solas reassured the Antivan sitting across from him.

“You think you’d have learnt not to put your foot in your mouth by now.” Iron Bull shook his head again.

Zevran smiled faintly, and the discussion paused when the waitress appeared with fresh drinks.

“I think there is another reason why he barely talks to you.” The former Crow admitted once she had gone again.

“And what might that be?”

“That you are a mage.”

Like the nightmare about the Archdemon, the latest one was still in Solas’ mind. Faced with two men who were no doubt more observant than average, he tried to keep his expression unchanged as he banished the lingering memory of Theron being tortured and effectively branded with magic.

“Is that so?” He asked, and Zevran nodded.

“He was always fussy about healing magic, but now he is wary of magic in any form. I, personally, think he might be afraid of it but it is difficult to be certain. I don’t think he would admit to it, if I asked.”

“Huh. I can’t say I blame him.” Bull chipped in.

“It’s entirely understandable, though. Why someone would be afraid of magic, or those who wield it. Theron is far from the only one to feel such a way.” Solas commented, before he got to his feet. “Thank you for answering my questions.” With that he left the tavern.

Theron’s nightmares were chains. Heavy, long lengths of chains that bound him inexorably to the past. And if Zevran’s theory about his fear of mages was correct…

Solas raised an eyebrow when he saw Sera and Zevran heading in the direction of the stables as he ascended Skyhold’s steps scarcely a minute later, but dismissed it.

 

The next time the rift mage saw the ranger, it was as he passed through the solar in Herah’s shadow on the way up to the library. They seemed to be in deep discussion, and the Inquisitor simply waved distractedly as she crossed to the stairs. Theron glanced at Solas, and it was clear from that one look that he had not been forgiven for his words yet.

Solas decided not to let it bother him, but he returned to painting the latest mural, listening to the sounds of the discussion continuing overhead, too far away for most of the words to be distinguishable. A third voice joined, a woman with a lilting Orlesian accent.

 

“Theron, this is Grand Enchanter Fiona.” Herah introduced him, looking between the two elves.

"You must be the Hero of Ferelden." Fiona commented, looking the ranger up and down.

"I prefer Theron." Came the slightly weary response, and Herah nodded minutely in empathy.

“What is it you wished to discuss with me?” Fiona asked, turning slightly so she could look between Herah and Theron in patient curiosity.

"What do you know about the Calling?" Theron asked.

“I see you have been told about my life before I was Grand Enchanter.”

“Yes.” The Dalish elf nodded. “The first person to leave the Grey Wardens behind entirely. Is it true that you are free of the Taint?”

“I am not certain if I am completely. Only time may tell. Mine is… An unusual circumstance.” The mage admitted, shifting her weight where she stood, smoothing out a crease in her immaculate robes. “Long ago I found myself stripped of what made me a Warden. They tried to reinitiate me, but nothing worked.” She looked down and shook her head slowly. “Nor could they figure out how it had happened. So instead, I was sent to the Circle.” Fiona chuckled to herself. “The first Grey Warden to be kicked out of the order.”

“That sounds like quite an achievement.” Theron replied, keeping his expression neutral and trying to keep a wistful tone from his voice.

“Oh, I was glad to leave at the end, despite how it seemed like a dream when I was first conscripted. Some of my brothers and sisters in the order felt I had cheated death, somehow. I do not blame them for feeling that way.” Fiona looked up at the ranger. “What happened made me unique in the Circle, and gave me the chance to do more than I ever could have hoped as a Warden, and now here I stand as the Grand Enchanter.”

Theron nodded slowly as he absorbed the information.

“So, you didn’t hear the false Calling in Orlais?” He asked, and Fiona shook her head.

“No, did you?”

“I was far from the south at the time, so no.” The Dalish elf shook his head.

“If you didn’t hear the false Calling, then you might truly be free of the Taint.” Herah commented, frowning lightly in thought.

“It seems likely.”

“Are you sure you can’t remember what cured it?” Theron asked, a last go at stopping his hope from dying out.

Judging from the looks both women gave him, his subtlety had been non-existent. Not that he cared much by now. He had initially joined the Wardens to stop himself from dying at the cost of being torn away from everything he had ever known, and saved the world for them, in their name, and was considered a hero.

Yet he had no wish to die a premature death in the bowels of the earth for an order he had all but turned his back on long ago once they had no further use for him, or the regular people for the Wardens. Not if there was a chance, however slim, dangled in front of him that promised true freedom. Was that selfish of him?

Theron bit back a sigh, knowing the last time he had tortured himself with that exact question. Had things truly changed? Ten years was a long time, but that didn’t mean change was inevitable, not at his very core. A stubborn Dalish clinging to life, determined not to die in exchange for his dignity.

“You truly wish to leave the Grey Wardens.” Fiona answered, a statement rather than a question, and if she was surprised at the knowledge she hid it well. Herah seemed to be more open with her emotions, and gave the ranger a confused look.

“I have saved the world in the name of the Wardens, I think that is more than any other would hope to achieve. I have no interest in dying for them as well. I am Dalish, and the idea of one day dying alone in the dark of the Deep Roads with little chance of my body being recovered and given back to the earth in the way of my people is very unappealing. They have ruined my life enough.” Theron answered darkly.

“What makes a person into a Grey Warden?” Herah asked, frowning again in thought as she changed the subject. “The Joining, right?” Both elves nodded, uncertain of where they were being led, and uncertain of how much they could reveal to one who was not part of the order. “What if the cure for the Calling is related to it?” She continued hesitantly, but from the way understanding dawned on Fiona’s face and Theron’s eyes widened like a startled halla, the Inquisitor had said something right.

“I trust you know the secret of the Joining?” Fiona asked Theron, and the ranger frowned as if the question was an insult while Herah watched.

“Of course I do.”

“Well, I doubt we would be able to get the real thing. We need a true one, not the lyrium-corrupted _thing_. I doubt anyone would survive using anything from that.” The elven mage grimaced in disdain, and Herah quickly found herself lost as to what they were discussing. She was almost tempted to step away, or lead them to an empty room so they could discuss openly without risking spilling all of the Grey Warden’s secrets to the uninitiated.

“We could wait until the next true Blight, then?” Theron grinned, eyes brightening in clear excitement that he otherwise kept tightly controlled, his features a careful mask.

“I thought you were against saving the world again?”

“True. But I doubt I can cheat death a second time. If we can’t get the real thing, what can we do?”

The two suddenly grew quiet, deep in a tense contemplation that Herah didn’t dare interrupt even as the minutes stretched on.

“What about pure high dragon blood?” Theron suggested, again drawing looks from the women standing next to him.

“Dragon blood?” The Inquisitor asked.

“If treated properly with the right spells, it is entirely possible it might work.” Fiona replied slowly, before she nodded in agreement. “There is nothing to be lost from trying.”

Herah looked from one elf to the other in surprise at a conclusion suddenly reached, all three of them in stunned awe at the idea. She was the first to speak, smiling faintly.

“Well. It seems that the Inquisition needs to go hunt a dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, there are bits of this I'm still not happy with or sure I should have kept, but overall I enjoyed writing this. And, if you've been on the blog recently, some parts will be familiar.  
> http://a-mahariels-travels.tumblr.com/post/113112268978/fic-update
> 
> Translation:  
> Fenedhis lasa, shemlen’alas lath’din - Suck a wolf dick, dirty human no-one loves. (Wow, Theron.)


End file.
